Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

It It literally bounced off the sidewalk, came to its feet-a front leg bent sideways and broken-and attacked Maybeck. It was like nothing Boldt had ever seen.

There were shrieks of hysteria. There was the sickening sound of the dog at work, of car motors nearby, and a motorcycle in the distance-Boldt was … aware of all the sounds. There was this nauseating moment when an active imagination couldn't help but fill in what was happening to the fallen man, and a terrifying moment as Boldt raced across the street, weapon drawn, debating whether or not to shoot the dog.

The decision was made for him: As he cleared a parked car, the dog looked over-actually seemed to focus on the gun, not him-and charged.

He came on low to the ground, and he came fast, as if that broken leg attached to him was nothing but a prosthesis.

Boldt fired once and missed. Fired again and missed. The dog closed the distance faster than Boldt could calculate his next shot. He fired again wildly, missed again. There was blood on its whiskers-he could see that clearly-and a spirited determination in its eyes that pushed Boldt to turn and run.

But Boldt held his ground, his training kicking in. A man with a gun could beat an attacking dog, but not two dogs. The rule was: Two, screw; one, use the gun.

Boldt steadied his weapon-waiting, this time; waiting-preparing to fire.

The blast hit the dog sideways. One minute the dog was there, the next gone-just like that. Dead under the car, if the trail of blood was any indication.

Boldt had not fired. The boy was no more than seventeen, Asian, wearing a winter overcoat. The brief look Boldt got of the gun convinced him it was a large-bore.45 semiautomatic-the gangs called them Cop Killers after a hit record. The gun was there, then it wasn't-just like the dog. The boy stuffed it out of sight and went off at a run.

Boldt knew the kids in gangs carried guns sometimes serious guns but it had never occurred to him that they knew how to shoot at anything but each other. Hitting that dog, even from the side, was no easy shot. But maybe-just maybe-the kid had saved Boldt's life. "Hey!" Boldt called after him; he wasn't sure whether he intended to arrest him or thank him. The kid's pace increased. Boldt ran half a block on instinct but stopped himself when his thoughts caught up to him. What was he going to do, shoot the kid?

A siren wailed in the distance. Someone had called the cops. I am a cop, Boldt thought. Then he took a look at Maybeck. He didn't feel anything. No nausea, no remorse, no sympathy. Nothing like he had felt at the sight of Connie Chi's body. His brain registered that this too was probably a homicide, though it would be one hell of a kill to prove. This mess before him was also a victim. But justice had been served here, at least in the eyes of Lou Boldt, and nobody was going to make him feel wrong about feeling good, Nobody. It was later now. Maybe forty-five minutes had passed, he wasn't sure; he had lost track. It was dark. The neighborhood wasn't interested in the killing any longer. He'd been upstairs, had taken some notes. He had bought a disposable camera at a local Quik-Mart and had tried to photograph the scene himself because SPD was so focused on the Safeway killing that only a single patrol car and a body bag team from Dixie's office arrived to help out. In this light, he wasn't likely to get any decent shots.

He took a picture of the fire hydrant. It was a gravestone now as well. How appropriate that Maybeck had hit a fire hydrant, Boldt thought, taking one last shot. Where this guy was going maybe he was there already-he'd be putting out fires day and nigt for the rest of eternity.

His pager rang. He hoped it was Daphne with news of Pamela Chase or Tegg. He had a hell of a time shutting the thing off, but he finally hit the right button.

He called in on his cellular. The message was from Lamoia, who had obviously abandoned the Safeway investigation at some point; Lamoia had a way of getting away with things like that. He was slippery without being sleazy. Nothing from Daphne. That worried him.

The message was read to him by the dispatcher: "Administration building, 8 P.m." Boldt checked his watch: 7:45. He jumped in his car and took off. The body bag boys were screaming something at him, but Lou Boldt wasn't listening. Donnie Maybeck was yesterday's news.

Dressed in a navy blue cashmere blazer, a white pinpoint Oxford and a multi-colored Italian silk tie, Elden Tegg warmed with the sight of his guests enjoying themselves. He loved the role of host, of provider, although secretly, in his innermost thoughts, he despised the pretensions of these people. Tonight was Peggy's opera dinner. Five of their twelve guests were voting members of the opera board, including its chairman, Byron Endicott. Despite Maybeck's earlier problem with the police and his own discovery that the county police had dug up Anna Ferragot's grave, Tegg attended his wife's dinner, clinging to a plan set in motion earlier in the day with a call to Vancouver. The harvest would take place tomorrow morning as planned. Tegg would deliver the organ himself. He had a noon flight booked out of Vancouver for Rio via Mexico City. His life as a veterinarian was finished; when he hit Rio he would be carrying Wong Kei's money and would have access to several accounts here in the city. If he worked quickly enough, that money could be electronically transferred before the little people had figured out how to even spell his name. That money was his ticket to buying his way in as a transplant surgeon. A new life.

A part of him recognized this as delusion. Fantasy. It all seemed too simple. It all worked out too easily, too perfectly. And yet he convinced himself that people did this kind of thing all the time. He read about them in the paper: Executives vanishing with the entire corporate pension; secretaries disappearing with their bosses; housewives cleaning out the joint accounts, never to be heard of again. All it took was a little courage, a little planning, and a lot of quick decisions.

He was focused on the upcoming harvest and his own escape. All he had to do was maintain a certain pretense of normality for the next few hours-fool everyone-and by tomorrow noon he would be gone, off to his new life. This was the way it was done, wasn't it? "The way what is done?" the woman in front of him asked.

Had he said something to her? Was he thinking aloud, speaking his thoughts for everyone to hear? "Sorry?" he asked, trying to remember her name, distracted by a piece of mushroom at the corner of her lips.

"What's that?" she asked, her napkin finding the mushroom.

Tegg's eyes found her breasts. Right out there for everyone to enjoy. There was more silicon in this room than hors d'oeuvres.

More tucks than in a Scottish kilt.

His wife signaled him so that this guest could see. What a lifesaver! He excused himself and dashed off to her side.

Peggy looked radiant, though somewhat awkward, in a Japanese tea dress cut so tightly around her hips and knees that she moved from guest to guest like a hobbled horse. Most of the other women in the room fell noticeably short of Peggy's high standards for presentation, though not for lack of trying.

His wife mouse-stepped past him and whispered, "T.J.'s having trouble with the company, but he won a Pro-Am in Scottsdale last month." She scooted over to the champagne and had a word with one of their white-gloved servers.

Tegg wasn't up to this pandering and politicking. For years he and Peggy had worked so hard to acquire this kind of social acceptance, but now that it was here, especially at a time of such nerve-racking decisions and potentially catastrophic problems, it all seemed so fake to him. They had bought this acceptance, by throwing his harvesting money at the arts-ballet, summer dance, the opera-by being seen. By blending in.